


Witch Therapy

by gala_apples



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Marijuana, Polyamory, Power Dynamics, Recreational Drug Use, Tickling, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 20:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13395522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: Friday go out for drinks with other people from work. Saturday you spend recovering, greasy food and all the lights off and no loud noises. And Sunday morning, a wake-and-bake. It’s tradition!





	Witch Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The power dynamics stuff isn't negotiated on-screen, but they've had conversations about this in the past.
> 
> 2) They have a lot of sex and enjoy said power struggle while stoned. 
> 
> If you think weed compromises consent, or a dynamic needs to be renegotiated every single time an established couple scene, this is probably not the fic for you.

Meg is the third person to wake up in the Jones household. Only Lindsay is left beside her, limbs starfished. She didn’t start out that way. Four to a mattress, even a California King, means snuggling tight, and inevitably waking everyone up when you need to pee or roll over. But now Lindsay has the whole left side to herself. Meg’s first urge is to give her a slow backrub to wake her up, a soft introduction to the world. She doesn’t. Sunday mornings -at least the ones where they’re in Austin- are for waking up at your own pace.

They’re also for... where the fuck is it? Sitting up in bed, Meg scans the dim room. There’s only a few places that it might be. Michael likes to keep this bedroom tidy, unlike back at Gavin’s, where shit just never gets put away between flights.

Meg spots the pipe on the dresser. She retrieves it with tip toeing feet, it and the zippered pouch beside it, and sits in the armchair. Clean, unsurprisingly. If it was at hers it’d be draped with a hundred different things, and she’d probably still sit on it. Meg puts the pipe on the arm of the chair and digs into the cute little rainbow polka dot pouch. First thing out is the skull shaped grinder full of pre-ground weed, thank you Lindsay. Second thing out is the tiny tupperware box they use for ashes, or stems and seeds when they’ve been forced to pick up something shitty quality. Last comes the lighter, the sacred tool without which nothing would be possible.

Meg packs a decent sized bowl. They have a lot left, at least four grams of the quarter they picked up. One large bowl does not mean she’s bogarting. Besides, if she gets super ripped now she’ll need less later to maintain. She flicks the wheel with her thumb and the flame pops up, which she puts to the bowl immediately. The first deep inhale is as much of an event as always. Prepping the pipe builds up the anticipation, and her lungs full of smoke is the deliverance of action.

Saying it’s a relief to smoke a bowl gives the wrong connotation, especially to the people who’ve never tried it. It’s not like Meg needs it, like she spends the whole work week shaking and jonesing for that moment Sunday morning. But it’s fucking _nice_ , like taking off a high heeled, heavy costume after a day of cosplaying. Or eating cookies and milk for dinner instead of cooking a dish that takes seven different pots and pans. Smoking pot is taking comfort to the next level. So fucking sue her for being relieved.

As the THC starts to invade her brain and make her thoughts easy, Meg repacks the gear back into the rainbow pouch. She leaves it on the armchair, because who wants to smoke standing up? Certainly not Lindsay, when she finally wakes up. 

Next Meg makes her way to the guest bathroom. The en-suite might rouse Lindsay, and Meg doesn’t want that for her lovely babe. The bathroom is near the stairs, and she can hear her boys downstairs, playing some kind of video game. It makes her want to be down there with them, but she tempers the sudden urge with the reminder they they’ll be there all day, and this is her time. It’s time to treat herself, and that starts with turning the taps ‘til they’re blasting torrents of lukewarm water. Unlike Michael, king of scalding hot showers, she likes her water almost cold.

Showering while stoned makes Meg feel like a mermaid. Her hair is so slick and silky from the conditioner that she feels like it could be floating. She’s surrounded by water, of course, and at a temperature that it feels like it’s melding with her skin. And when she closes her eyes she gets these beautiful sparkly visuals. They remind her of iridescent scales, like the Rainbow Fish is just chilling with her. It makes it hard to want to get out of the water. Maybe she can convince everyone to fuck off to a pool, later?

There are four robes hanging on four separate hooks attached to the back of the bathroom door. Michael’s handiwork, once he realised that both she and Gavin were perfectly happy trying to cram theirs on the same hooks the Jones use, only for the fabric to inevitably slip and fall to the floor in a heap. Michael is order fighting to be heard in a world of chaos. But the polar fleece is soft against her skin, and wicks away any beads of moisture that might have lingered, and it’s not covered in dust bunnies because it hasn’t fallen into the neglected corner of the room, so five points for Michael.

Sitting on the sink counter combing her hair, Meg considers getting dressed. It’d be easy enough to do. Yeah she’d have to tiptoe back into the master bedroom, and dig through the dresser Lindsay bought her and Gavin when it became obvious going back and forth with a crammed backpack wasn’t working, but that’s not as difficult as it sounds. Except she just doesn’t feel like wearing a bra, or anything else constricting. And who the fuck is going to complain about her wearing a bathrobe all day? If anything, her sigs will probably be happy about the constant flash of leg.

So instead of clothes, Meg glides down the stairs and sticks her head in the living room. “I’m making breakfast, did you two eat?”

She’s greeted by near-twin ‘morning’ and ‘morning love’, and then Gavin gestures to the half full gallon of milk, and the open box of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. “Got all the food we need.”

“Dorks. But okay. Be back in a minute.”

With the lovely way weed makes time a bit janky, Meg has a carton of eggs in her hand before she really notices she’s entered the kitchen. She decides to let her subconscious win and actually make eggs. The only question is which kind. Scrambled eggs are a weekday staple, but they take more work. At least with fried eggs you just drop that shit into the pan, sprinkle some spices, and let it do its thing.

There’s a spring in Meg’s step when she goes back to the living room, plate in hand. She feels _good_ ; confident that today will be full of joy, loose and limber, and to put the cherry on the cake, even a bit raunchy. It’s not just that THC makes her physically horny, although that much is true. It’s a mental thing too. It just feels so much naughtier to be stoned now, than smoking at other times of day. People are raised to think of intoxication as a thing for the night, when you can hide it in the darkness. It’s not okay to do it in the morning. People think you have a problem. To smoke and eat breakfast in the bright glow of sunshine through the window is a league all of its own.

“Whatcha make?”

“It’s got paprika and red pepper flakes and salt. It’s good as fuck. And I’m not sharing.”

Michael scoffs. “Fuck your sharing. I have cookies.”

Meg giggles. Michael gives this impression of a hedgehog to all the RT fans. He started out prickly and off puttingly angry. Now he’s calmed a bit -Ragequit hasn’t been produced in ages- and he’s rolled over to the fluffy underbelly. And that’s just what gets on camera. He’s so soft, and kind, when they’re having an intimate moment. Let him play spiky as much as he wants, Meg knows the truth.

Ignoring her boys for a second, she focuses on her plate and digs in. Her boasting was correct. It is good as hell, and as hot on her tongue. It’s possible some of the awe is from the weed making her taste buds stronger, but if so, so what? Food tasting better is just another reason on a long list of them for why to smoke once a week. Or, in their words, why attend witch therapy.

It's Gavin who first coined the term, unsurprisingly. Sober he's full of random phrases and oddly sculpted words. Stoned he's sometimes incomprehensible. Not that it matters. The office and the fans have unconsciously picked up some of Gavin's clauses -bevs, ‘blankity’-do, gubbins- and at home it's no different. A wake and bake is now and forever more witch therapy because of the time Gav went off on how the air around them felt like the green and purple vapors coming off a witch's cauldron, a potion after a real smegpot of a day. Meg likes the term. It’s better than some dumb four-twenty comment, and unlikely to provoke stinging memories.

Meg laughs watching them play the newest DLC of Snipperclips. They’re so fucking bad at shapes, it’s hilarious. It’s enough to make her turn when her eggs are done, grab Michael by the hair and pull him in for a kiss. She’s so happy she’s dating people who make her laugh.

“Turney, I love you, but your mouth is like fucking lava.”

“Fucking lava as an extra emphasis, or fucking lava like an action?” Gavin inquires.

“I am burning my dick off for no one on earth, Gavvers,” Michael replies.

Mentally placing odds of their discussion turning into an argument by the time she gets back, Meg gets up so she can dump her dishes in the sink and take a turn in the bathroom. Her mouth tastes fine to her, but there’s no question that he wants to get her mack on today. If no one’s gonna make out with her until she gargles some mouthwash, she really only has one choice.

Brushing her teeth feels like a eel sliding against her gums. Or some sort of kinky tentacle porn, like she’s been captured and it’s entering her mouth. Not exactly a situation anyone else would think about, Gavin and Michael and Lindsay don’t read erotica the way she does. The simile’s still valid though. Especially near the end, when there’s so much foam in her mouth she’s drooling it.

Back in the living room, Lindsay still isn’t up, but Michael and Gavin have both sunk to the floor. Michael’s sitting on one of the larger throw pillows. Gavin’s on his back, head propped up on a cushion he’s stolen from the couch. It can’t possibly be more comfortable than sitting on the actual couch, but it’s not like she gives enough fucks to scold them to put the couch back together. Meg clambers over them to ensconce herself in a portion of the sectional that still has padding. It’s possible she flashes them, the flaps of her bathrobe catching the air, but it’s nothing they haven’t seen before. They’re still playing Snippy-do, albeit Gavin with great difficulty, since he’s using a controller he’s holding over his head, neck craned to see the television. Meg might make an argument for tapping in in a few minutes, but for now she’s good. She just want to look at her pretty boys, bask in the fact that they’re hers. Gavin stretched out in the sunlight makes her think of a lion on the savannah.

“Anyone else having intense animal associations and distractions?” Meg asks.

“Nope, but shit tastes real good,” Michael responds. “I don’t even want to eat the cookies, I just want that shit in my mouth.”

“I feel you, my dude.” Meg’s easily going to make like six micro-meals today, and enjoy the hell out of all of them.

She doesn’t actually get an opportunity to take over in Snipperclips. Two hilariously incompetently completed mini-games later and they’re declaring themselves done. Meg’s shouted suggestion of MarioKart is listened to, as is her demand to be Toad. Michael’s Yoshi, as usual, and Gavin goes with Wario. Michael hands out the Wii-motes and settles beside her just as the first track loads. The way Michael is sitting so close to her makes Meg's skin tingle. She wonders if any animals are ticklish, or if that's just more anthropomorphism. Either way, it gives her an idea. 

“I'll bet you on the next round of MarioKart. The person who wins gets to ask a favour of the other two.” 

Gavin, unsurprisingly, jumps in immediately. He loves gambling. “I'm going to make both of you make me dinner for the rest of the month,” he says, already crowing his victory. 

Michael is more careful. There's a reason their team together is Team Winners and Gav and Lindsay are whatever bullshit team they think up in the moment; Michael makes sure he can put money where his mouth is, unlike those two wildcards. But he breaks too. “Deal.”

By some grace of god, Meg wins. She fucking destroys the Mushroom Gorge, and after the prerequisite victory dance, lays down her request. “I want you two to wrestle and then I want Michael to pin you down and tickle you.”

“What if I win the wrestly-do?”

Michael laughs at him. “Never going to happen.”

The controllers get heaped on the middle couch cushion, and Meg rearranges herself on the short leg of the sectional to get the best view. Meanwhile Michael and Gavin are on their feet, shifting their weight from left to right, examining each other for weaknesses. It’s Gavin who makes the first move; he leaps on Michael and drives him to the floor. He’s on top for a moment, laid on top of Michael’s left side. Michael’s right shoulder is already touching the floor, but Gavin, using his chest as a battering ram, and his left arm as a brace against the floor, tries to shove Michael’s left shoulder down to the ground.

It doesn’t work, of course. Even using all of his upper body strength, Gavin’s too lightweight to really make Michael move someplace he doesn’t want to go. And then Michael uses a combination of curling an arm around Gav’s torso and bucking his hips up, and the next thing Meg knows, Michael is on top. 

After that, it’s all but over. Gavin is a squirmy little fuck, and he tries to slither his way out from under Michael, but it just doesn’t work. Nor does kicking his legs wildly. His closest call comes when he wraps both legs around Michael’s hips and tries to flip them, but they’re less than halfway over when Michael turns it into a gator roll and winds up right back on top again.

Meg’s not sure what’s hotter, Michael taking control or Gavin losing control. They both have their finer points. There’s just something about the way Michael takes control like a classically manly man that gets to her in a way that she almost feels guilty about. On the other side, Gavin is just the kind of person that looks good tied up, bruised, flinching.

It only gets better when Michael begins to fill the second part of her winnings. Michael squats on Gavin’s pelvis, only two layers of pyjamas and possibly underwear away from riding his dick. For a brief second Meg is confused, thinks it’s going to go that way, and is totally cool with it. Getting tickled or not being able to control a fuck, either way it’s torment for Gavin. Before she can get too imaginative about the latter though, Michael curls his hands into claws and starts at Gavin’s ribcage.

The ribs and chest doesn’t do much for Gavin. Michael’s hands roam all over the sheep printed flannel landscape and nothing happens. Gavin even rolls his eyes. That might be Michael’s cue to kick it to the next level, annoyance about his boi being a brat. Or maybe he just acknowledges what his loss of the game means he owes her. Either way Michael goes for the armpits, and it’s such a good sign that Gavin tries to clamp his arms to his sides. That has to be the sweet zone.

Michael’s not having it, of course. He wrenches Gavin’s left arm up first, then his right, and holds both above his head. That alone is enough to make Meg squirm a little, squeeze her legs together instinctively. With both of Gavin’s thin wrists in one hand, Michael uses his free hand to dig into one of Gav’s armpits. Gavin squeals and tries to roll away underneath Michael, despite all the points of contact making it impossible. Meg grins a slow cheshire cat grin at the victory. It’s only going to get better from here.

It’s amazing how quickly someone being tickled goes from stoic to out of control. It’s intoxicating to watch Gavin start off trying to duke the contact, and progress to whipping back and forth like he can shake Michael off if only he tries hard enough. And the noises Gavin’s making. It’s mostly laughter, of course, but different from what Meg’s used to hearing. It’s not a funny shit on Youtube laughter. This is a screaming laughter, loud and a long stretch of one syllable. Occasionally he manages to choke out one of their names, an appeal to mercy that neither of them care to give. He’s practically crying with desperation. It works for Meg. It really _really_ works for Meg. Enough so that she opens the overlapping flaps of her robe and touches herself. Would this be weird sober? Maybe. But she’s stoned, and any inhibitions she might have seem unnecessary, and Michael is making Gavin scream, so what else is she to do?

One second Meg’s fixated on the boys; the way Michael’s dominating, Gavin’s frantic behaviour, the way they glow in the sunlight, how they’re both so focused on responding to the other that they seem to have forgotten she’s even in the room. The next second there’s a shadow in Meg’s peripheral vision. It’s enough to make her startle. 

It’s Lindsay, of course, standing at the entrance of the room. Who else could it possibly be? Once Meg accepts her presence though, it makes sense. Gavin is downright bellowing. Of course it drew Lindsay’s attention. Hell, it was probably loud enough to wake her up, if she wasn’t already stirring.

“What’s going on here?” Lindsay asks. It’s a mix of curiosity and something a little darker, more sensual. She can see as clearly as Meg can that there’s a surprising but very present sexual edge to this. She makes no effort to keep her volume down, but still the boys don’t notice anything outside themselves.

“Come here,” Meg says, and widens her stance on the L shaped couch. Lindsay fits right between her legs, her back to Meg’s chest. It makes it a lot harder to jerk off, but it does leave her the opportunity to put her hands on her girlfriend’s breasts. They’re so warm and silky in her hands. In a better life, a life where she’s as stretchy as Reed Richards from Fantastic Four, she’d manage to have Lindsay between her legs and bury her face in the rich cleavage at the same time.

And maybe she’d elongate an arm to start jerking Gavin off too. He’s writhing so hard from what Michael’s doing that she honestly wonders if Gavin would even notice the additional sensation. The idea of him not even noticing gets Meg all the wetter. Like she said, he’s hot when he’s submissive.

The first incline Meg has that things are about to get interesting is the pressure on her pelvis. It’s the worm of a hand wriggling between her and Lindsay. Lindsay’s hand pushes lower and lower until her fingertips are dancing down Meg’s mound and playing with the edges of her outer labia. Her fingers dip in, and Meg lets out a hiss. That first moment of a hand on you that you can’t predict is something she can’t get over. It’ll never not be an action worth gasping over.

“Touch his dick Michael,” Lindsay calls out in a cheer like she’s on football sidelines. “Touch his taint!” It’s enough to bring back visuals of Lindsay during Lazer Team in the blue uniform and a ribbon tying her hair up, an image as classically feminine as Michael is masculine. 

“Lindsay!” Gavin shrieks as Michael goes with the jeers and adjusts how he’s sitting so he can jam his hand up at Gavin’s perineum. It’s a reaction Michael must like, it’s the only explanation for how he starts doing it again and again, so hard Gav’s prostate must be taking a beating. Gavin’s only wearing pyjamas after all, there’s only a thin layer of flannel between one of the most sensitive parts of his body and Michael’s roaming hand. “Michael!”

“You heard what I said,” Lindsay says with that dash of sexual cruelty that Meg is just smitten with. Even when it’s used against her. Gavin’s always first target, but she and Michael get it sometimes too. It is Good Shit.

Michael ignores Gavin’s cries to keep following Lindsay’s orders. It’s clearly not only Meg who enjoys Lindsay’s chaotic domination. Michael doesn’t just follow the idea of an assault on Gav’s prostate, though. He releases Gavin’s wrists so he can continue tickling him. Give Gavin the best -or worst- of both worlds.

It’s a good idea, but he’s not quite pulling it off. Without anything to pin him in place, Gavin’s rolling his chest trying to get away from Michael. His arm is clamped down, and his free hand is shoving at Michael, pretty successfully keeping him out of his sensitive bits. It could be great, but it’s just not. Meg can’t let a good scene to go to waste. Her stoned imagination is practically weeping at the thought. 

The drive to fix things momentarily triumphs over the need to orgasm. Meg bucks her pelvis forward to wordlessly explain she wants off this ride. She doesn’t want to speak out loud and ruin the moment. Unlike Lindsay, she doesn’t really like to direct things verbally. The way Lindsay’s fingers crook in her pussy when she thrusts forward is almost enough to make her abandon the idea, but Meg just can’t do it. When her girl gets the non-verbal cue, which she _does_ because at this point in their relationship they’re all pretty good at understanding each other, and scoots away, she doesn’t pull Linds back into her. Instead Meg lets Lindsay -and her chance at coming- go. 

She drops onto her knees on the floor and knee walks to her boys. The carpet is a bit rough on her knees, but it’ll be a small price to pay to make this happen the way she envisions. Behind her Lindsay settles into the lounging position Meg once had. 

“‘Sup?” Michael asks, tone casual for all that he’s starting to get out of breath from the endless struggle with Gavin. 

“You take bottom, I’ll take top?” Meg suggests. 

“What are you on about?” Gavin shouts. Even with Michael’s less than stellar division of activity, Gavin’s still struggling to withstand it. Bodes well with what she has planned.

Michael nods and immediately lowers Gavin’s pyjama bottoms. With both hands free to be below Gavin’s waist Michael starts to jerk Gavin off with his right, fast paced. Almost violently. His left hand is jammed into Gavin’s hip, keeping him in place. It’s the perfect time to begin her part and tug Gavin’s arms over his head. Meg crawls on top of the two limbs. It’s not the most comfortable on her knees, but she’s too high to truly care. With Gav’s arms forced upward, Meg can start tickling his armpits. The futile attempts at movement that Michael’s touching spurred double. Between the two of them Gavin can’t stay still for an instant.

Meg would have bet money nothing could make her look away from Gavin. She loses that bet when she hears a distinct whirring noise. A glance at Lindsay proves Meg’s filthiest mental image right. Lindsay’s wearing a butterfly vibrator. She must have had it on since before coming into the room, under her pyjama pants. She must have woken up, smoked up, and decided today was a day for sliding straps up her legs, positioning jelly rubber over her clit, and pressing the button to go whenever she damn well pleased. _Shit_ , it turns Meg on when Lindsay gets stoned and gets horny. Not that Meg doesn’t, but Lindsay’s determination to build up to orgasm again and again is inspiring.

Gavin and Lindsay come almost simultaneously. Being surrounded by twin sounds of moaning orgasm makes Meg shiver with delight. One of the best factors of polyamory definitely has to be the way you get encompassed. Anything that’s going on is going on in all directions at once. Like growing up in a large family, except you actually want to see them running around the house naked.

Team Losers sounds remarkably similar while orgasming. The difference sets in in the afterglow. Gavin whimpers “no more” to them, begging her and Michael to have mercy, while Lindsay doesn’t turn off her vibration for a second. On other occasions Meg might be tempted to play a game of prolonged overstimulation with Gavin. She knows Michael and Lindsay would be on board, and it takes a lot for Gavin’s no to actually mean refusal. Today though, it doesn’t seem in the cards. Meg wants to get her own, and she can’t do that if she’s centered on Gavin.

Meg takes her hands off of Gavin’s skin and crawls backward so she can get off of Gavin’s forearms. Hopefully they won’t be too numb. Not that he’ll notice, whacked out from post-orgasm dopamine, sapped from the struggle, and to be honest probably riding a wave of other endorphins from being a good sub. That’s a high that lasts a while, never mind a pot high.

“What do you say Michael? Wanna fuck me raw?” She unties the band on her bathrobe and lets the sides fall open to prove her point.

“Jesus shit, Turney. You sure have a fucking way with words.”

Meg replies heatedly, “surely in this room of people someone can manage to put something up my pussy. What do I have to do, call up Sue Johanson to explain how?” Excuse her for being horny from the edging. Two sex acts and no orgasm yet. What the fuck.

“I think I can figure it out.”

Michael grabs her by the legs. It’s nothing for him to pull her across the floor. He’s had a work out regime for the last two years, and she’s petite as fuck. By the time Meg’s at him, friction has pulled her robe off, and she has half a back’s worth of rug burn. She’s laid out beside Gavin, who stretches out an exhausted hand to hold hers. Meg takes it, and waits with giddy anticipation. Luckily she’s in the perfect position for Michael to tug her legs over his shoulders and sink his cock inside of her. Birth control is the fucking best. If not for it, she’d have to wait for condom to be found and open and applied. A goddamn eternity, if it’s her libido that’s measuring the time.

He pounds into her until her toes curl and her back is arching. She wants to come. Oh _fuck_ does she want to come. Lindsay has a second time. Meg _heard_ it. Her orgasm is building but not she’s not there yet. She’s a full glass with surface tension not allowing itself to overflow. That’s when the universe proves it loves her. Lindsay yells out “catch” and something comes flying after them. Michael catches it, naturally. It’s the jelly butterfly, and Michael presses it directly onto her clit. After what seems like hours of edging, this enough to blow Meg’s stack. Her feet turn inward and every muscle in them tenses until it feels like her bones could just shatter into dust. She arches up to batter her pelvis against Michael, really get his cock deep and the vibe tight against her. And then it’s just down to the screaming.

The aftermath finds Meg naked, starfished on the carpet. Her own slick is dripping down the side of her thigh. If she doesn’t get up soon it’s going to pool in the crease where butt meets leg. She breathes deeply, trying to regain a normal pattern. Her hand is loose against Gavin’s now, and damp as hell, but she doesn’t let go. She loves her boi, loves that he was the first person to not mind being first but not only. 

“Can I come on you?” Michael asks, wet cock in his hand. She feels bad that he hasn’t got what he’s wanting yet, but not bad enough to regret coming first. 

“Go for it, stud.” As long as she doesn’t have to move, Meg’s up for a lot of things. She lies there with half lidded eyes as her beautiful brunet boyfriend strokes his cock. She wants to see him, but she also wants to avoid jizz in her eye. That shit stings.

When Michael does blow, he aims for her stomach. He empties out on her, then sinks to his haunches beside her. Meg predicts what happens next, down to the exact positioning. Lindsay slides off the couch and sits cross legged on the floor, one hand on Gavin’s hairy thigh, the other rubbing up and down Michael’s back, which is so sweaty Meg can almost hear the squeegee noises. It’s a bit gross for Meg’s tastes, but the Jones’ both seem to like it, so all the power to them.

This is the other part of Gavin’s dumb title for their Sunday ritual, the second reason Meg agreed with it beyond avoiding negative associations with ‘four twenty’. Getting stoned and having sex knowing that so many wholesome people would be horrified; it’s a little like the Salem witch trials. Of course the Puritans go after the lone woman in the village who might not follow respectable tradition. Having wild near-orgy sex is flipping off the Puritans, real vent therapy for the persecuted historical feminist “witch”.

“Who wants a bowl,” Lindsay asks.

“You serious?”

“I’m in,” Gavin announces.

Meg’s in too. After all, that’s what Sundays are for. It’s a day for everything to be wrapped in a silken cloud of smoke, for things to be luxurious and sensual, but also funny, and sarcastic, and cuddly. It’s for when you want all the good things in the world within reach. God bless witch therapy.


End file.
